


of all the stars

by apollonixus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ancient Greece, Ancient Rome, Dangerous Situations, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Intimacy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prince Lance (Voltron), Romance, Slow Burn, kinda forbidden love i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 15:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17347835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollonixus/pseuds/apollonixus
Summary: In the summer of Lance's twentieth birthday, he is a prince who only wishes to follow his own desires. Though war is a constant threat on the horizon, he will stop at nothing to find himself in the island city of Edonis, the capitol of the empire he is one day meant to rule. One fateful night, he meets someone that challenges him and sets his heart aflame. It is a fateful encounter, one that will change everything.





	of all the stars

 

 

Lance sees him in the garden, when the moon is bright and the air is warm on his skin. The thin material that drapes over his body is sheen with perspiration but he enjoys the cold feel of it when he fans himself, the parchment heavy in his hand. From the window, the boy below is almost completely shrouded in the dark.

But not entirely.

Leaning on the crest of his hand, Lance stares with hooded eyes at the glint of metal at the boy's lithe waist. His leathers are for that of riding, the short cape on his back standard for a soldier. One sandaled foot rests on the stone wall behind him, easing him into a position of uncaring relaxation.

Reaching blindly, Lance grabs a piece of fruit and lets it squish between his teeth. The taste is ripe and tart. He sighs and leans away from the window, knowing he should get some rest. The day had been long and already the night is half over. But he can hear the crash of blue waters off of the coast and he wants nothing more than to gaze outside until the sun rises, loving when all of the sky is lit with colors of summer: red and orange and violet.

In the end, he gathers his bearings and strips himself of his attire, not even bothering to apply the oils that will help him wake refreshed. Instead, he simply slides into his bed and sighs at the feel of it. His feet don't ache and his belly is full and yet he feels taken over by something unseen; a pressing to his chest, the sick churn of his gut.

He shuts his eyes tight, praying to the gods that this moment will pass.

Eventually it does. And he sleeps.

 

* * *

 

Lance watches the first beams of daylight fall onto his bed like water over rock. Each ray reflects off of particles in front of his alcove, dancing and floating in random motion. He watches with little interest, putting off the chore of dressing for as long as possible. Outside of his doors there is already the clatter of servants the voices of guards changing shifts.

He pays them no mind.

Instead, he continues to watch that change of light. Blue turns to deep amber and soon a pale yellow, similar to the wilting petals on his bedside table. The color continues to morph, shifting from shade to shade until they coincide and combine in pure light.

It's the only quiet time he'll have for the remainder of the day.

Like clockwork, a brisk knock distracts him. He sits up just as Nefeli pushes the doors wide, her wrinkled hands sliding against flecks of gold set into the stark white wood. Her stature is short and crone-like, her shoulders wide, the flowing silk of her chiton bunched around the top of her feet.

"Already?" Lance drawls, pushing away the sheets to allow himself room to sit, his brown hair sitting ruffled and sleep ridden around his face. "What must I do to gain another hour?"

Nefeli flicks her hand, the rings settled upon her fingers clinking together. It annoys Lance a bit, though he'd never tell.

"You've had your beauty rest." The old woman croaks, "If you're lucky, it was quite enough."

Lance rolls his eyes and lets his feet find the floor, the smooth granite tile already warming with the rising sun. He quickly slides his nightwear back onto his body, the material drifting behind him in a flowing trail, brushing against the length of his shaped calves. He catches his reflection in the encapsulated mirror beside his bed, the glass shined and golden frame polished.

His hair is longer than it's ever been, the subtle waves reaching the nape of his brown neck. It's a tangled mess and the next hour will be dedicated to brushing away the nest of locks. Imported lavender water will be spritzed into the fray, taming the flyaway strands until he smells fresh as the gardens in the spring.

Nefeli pushes his closet drape aside, making a row of clothes sway. Lance eyes the chitons and robes and cloaks, soon settling on a tunic of persimmon and its sharp beauty. Nefeli, of course, reaches for the traditional garb of mourning.

Dark as night and silver as the stars, any other time Lance would find the armor appealing.

He shakes his head and pushes Nefeli's hand away, "No."

Nefeli furrows her thinning brows, lips pulled into a deep frown. "Prince, today is not the day for silly-"

"I know what day it is." Lance walks to the closet and pulls at the brighter attire, fingers holding tight. "I said no."

Nefeli doesn't try to snatch it away. She simply watches, wary but wise, as Lance holds it up against himself. It's new, hardly a week old and ridiculously vibrant. It looks nothing like his armor, like the leathers expected to hang from his hips and the breastplate and the sheathe for his sword.

Motioning for Nefeli to help him dress, he lets his night robe fall to the ground and gladly accepts the new material against his skin. It slides on easily and though he still has to accept the cloak of his family, with the clasp of gold in the shape of a lion as his own symbol, he relishes the way the color matches the sun.

Nefeli shakes her head and tightens the clasp, knowing he won't accept the helmet either. Her hand brushes a line of raised skin on his throat and he quickly pulls away from her hands, eager to just finish the job himself. He adorns the leathers on his forearms and strides to the mirror, glad to distract himself with the brushing of his hair. He works on it for a long while, wincing when it pulls at the root.

"You're a spitting image of your father, my boy." Nefeli eventually rasps, a new doting smile tugging at her lips.

Lance tenses, mouth drawing into a thin line. "If you mean to insult me, you've done more than enough."

Nefeli bows her head, "Of course not."

"Good." Lance lifts his chin, pushing his shoulders back. "I would hope not."

It's quiet for a moment, the two of them hesitant to speak before Lance brings a hand to cover his mouth. His laugh is short lived but there all the same, a trickling bell of a sound.

"Keep that up and you will be fit to rule in no time." Nefeli places a palm on Lance's shoulder, squeezing slightly. "A fit rival for the title of king."

The humor is sucked out of Lance almost instantly, true displeasure clouding his eyes. "I would rather die."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic." Nefeli shakes her head and leads him forward, passing a small table set with perfumes and books and an ornate silver knife. "Your time will come and it won't matter if you'd rather ride far away from this place. The title is yours by right."

"You know that isn't-"

She tsks, cutting into Lance's retort with a steely glare. "Keep those thoughts to yourself, dear."

Lance's mouth slams shut, the words dying against his tongue.

Golden sandals wait by his door and he laces them with fingers growing shaky by the minute. The chain he always wears sits cool against his chest and he feels it shift forward until it brushes against the material of his clothes. A lone star, the pendant has spindles that stretch in several directions, reaching toward a distant sky.

The moment he's finished, the doors open to torches already lit and flickering against the walls. He spots a servant further down the hall standing on a rickety ladder to dust a particularly large portrait. The piece is meant to be important, perhaps some distant ancestor, he's sure.

He passes it as though it doesn't exist.

Treading toward the courtyard takes a bit of time considering his bedchambers rest closest to the ocean and furthest from the city. But the moment he feels the warm morning air he is taking a deep, full breath. The heat has already begun to settle, the weeks spent without rain taking a toll on the ground beneath his feet. He glances down, noticing a crack lining the surface of the stone before catching sight of the drooping trees further ahead. A fountain splashes though the stream has lessened dramatically since the solstice. He eyes the carved statue in the center, the hand of the Goddess Amphitrite allowing the flow of water to fall from a deep bowl.

Where once there were flowers, now there is only the herbalists trying desperately to save them. Petals fall as he passes, the vibrant colors of yellow and red now a cracking, pale imitation. Servants tear their eyes away from him even when he nods in their direction, trying and failing to keep their attention.  
Sometimes he wonders if they look away from respect or simply fear.

Fear of his father. Of his brother. Of, he supposes, himself.

The towering walls of the palace give way to painted murals of heroes long past, the colors leading all the way up to the crow nests. A flutter of wings leave the shadowed windows now, though whether it's to relay a message or they're simply taking their first flight, he doesn't know.

It's not like he receives letters anyway.

Nefeli falls back, allowing Lance to continue his trek to the open terrace by himself. Already, he smells breakfast. But he isn't hungry.

Not today.

Mourners of the court converse in swaths of black, their own draping attire brushing against sand and rock; shockingly dark against the blue of the morning sky. He receives a few scathing looks from his father's royal advisers, their expressions conveying distaste at his choice in clothing for the day.

Anthimos stands from his seat on the terrace, the wavy locks of his hair falling about his face from a new kind of dampness. No more sweat from training on the island of Thetrias, he's fresh from the bathing pools, the milky water still resting damp on his neck.

"Lance." He spits, "You're-"

"Thirsty." Lance interrupts, eyes shooting to his brothers before falling back to the table.

Vines wrap around the roof of the terrace and the small round shape of ripening olives hang limp from the trees on either side of them. Ahead, there is the crystal azure of the open ocean. Lance longs to jump into it, to feel the rush of cool water above his head.

Anthimos sneers and pushes a chalice toward him, his long fingers wet and red from the spilling of wine. The drink is dry on Lance's tongue as he takes a sip, eyeing the way his brother hesitates to retake his seat.

"Father will arrive shortly." He eventually says, "You'll regret having worn that."

He motions toward Lance's chiton, to the outward show of bright color and lack of a warrior's breastplate.

"Mother would have liked it." Lance says.

"Your mother was a fool."

Lance freezes, listening as his father uses his cane to make his way up the steps. Another flutter of wings fly above, distant and free. Almost desperately, Lance wishes he was one of them. Instead, he keeps his gaze locked on the table. A bowl of grapes and goat cheese sit within decorative leaves, the food even more unappetizing given the newest arrival.

Kostas Melis is a brute of a man. His breastplate is that of obsidian, shaped and rounded to fit perfectly against his old body. A helmet rests beneath his left arm, the curve of the bristles at the top pointing toward the ground. The armor is an intimidating array of power. Power earned, most say, from copious amounts of bloodshed. A graying beard rests against his neck, right above the breastplate, the symbol of the royal crest ornate and intricate. The bear is a roaring figure, teeth sharp and dangerous. Kostas has no time for pleasantries and even less time for his children. His dark brown fingers pluck up a grape and he shoves it into his mouth, the squelch making both Lance and Anthimos squirm in quiet anticipation. His golden eyes roam away from the sea, as if bored, before resting on Lance.

Immediately, Lance drops his gazes.

"Your beast will stay behind today." Not a question; simply a command. He continues, "You are to attend the funeral procession to the beach and you will visit the orphanages before your return home. See to it that the little runts know the name of our rule. That they don't forget it."

Lance gives a brisk nod, steeling himself to look up from the table. His father meets his eye, gold against cerulean, and waits. Though for what, Lance never really knows.

Anthimos gulps down the rest of his wine and clears his throat, finally drawing Kostas's attention away.

 

* * *

 

The city streets are crowded and Lance wishes he were anywhere else but here. Following behind the royal guard, he tries to look at the sky and the buildings and the people surrounding him. It's not hard to see the mourning in their faces, the way they glance at the body on the slab of wood being carried ahead before finding Lance, only to quickly look away again. Within that look, Lance can spot the emotions rolling like a theatrical performance: disbelief, grief, pity, fear.

Gulping, he looks at his hands on the reins of his horse and studies his cuticles. His eyes blur beneath the midday sun and his skin is too hot, a testament to the last two hours spent parading around this city at his father's whim.

His father who, the last time Lance had checked, was leading the procession with a face set in stone.

Voices grow quiet as they reach the final slope of land before the long trek to the beach, where already the priestesses of Hestia have sent prayers and wishes to Olympus. Lance hasn't been able to look at the body of his mother and he fears that if he does now, he'll fall from his horse. His knees will find the hard ground and he'll sink and sink, swallowed up by the underworld, hand held out blindly to the lord Hades. Yet, when he finally looks, he does nothing of the sort.

He feels numb. Void. The emotions that have torn him apart for the last week are at a dead end.

His mother is beautiful. He knows it just as everyone else knows it. When she was alive, her voice could carry and the laughter that would follow would spark a special light in the heart of the people. Lance stares at her face, at the powders used on her cheeks and eyelids and the flowers braided into her once thick brown hair. He stares at her and he, shamefully, _horrifically_ , can feel nothing at all.

With a shuddering breath, he rips his attention away and once again finds himself lost in the crowd. He sweeps his eyes over each head-

And brings his gaze back to just one.

The boy is a flash of dark hair beneath the shadow of a hood and Lance, for some unknowable reason, is struck by the way he openly stares. It's a fleeting moment, one that isn't meant to last. But even as Lance turns back to the street and steers his horse down the slope, he risks a final glance back.

But the boy is gone.

"Go on." Anthimos suddenly appears beside him, his own horse huffing against the windblown sand. "This needs to be over with soon."

"Do you have a date, brother?" Lance grits his teeth. "What's the rush?"

Guards surrounding them shift with the rising tension. It isn't unlike the two of them to get into fights that start out half serious and end with bloody noses and near-broken bones. For a moment, Lance thinks that Anthimos might actually leap from his horse and reach for his blade, desperate to send it into Lance's chest. His brother is yearning for the throne, he can practically feel it on his tongue.

And yet, Lance is in the way. Though he isn't first born, he is smarter and better suited to leading an empire. And their father knows it.

"Just keep your mouth shut, Lance." Anthimos hisses, "I regret returning to this fucking island."

With that, he kicks his horse and speeds ahead. Sand flies into the air and Lance watches as a great amount lands on their mother, who has not opened her eyes or brought her lips to a smile; she has done _nothing_ in the wake of her son's vicious words toward each other.

And she never will again.

 

* * *

 

  
Lance sits among the children. His hands and clothes have been grabbed at by tiny fingers since he arrived, like hooks and pincers. The orphanage is small and overcrowded, the air ripe with sweat and dirty bodies. The rooms are only meant to house the children until they come of age, destined to either gain the armor and weapons provided by the treasury or ready themselves for marriage. Though looking at the sea of faces now, Lance can see that none of them are aware of this.

"Where is your pet?" A little girl asks, her hair feathery atop her head. He vaguely remembers her from his last visit but knows that it's almost impossible to recall each of their names individually. 

Lance looks to her and smiles, handing her another small piece of pear. "She's at home, lounging on the fountains."

"Fountains." The girl repeats, squeezing the pear slice a bit too tight. "I'd like to lounge in a fountain too!"

Laughing, Lance brings a hand to the girl's head and ruffles her hair. The small bag bearing carved wooden toys from the palace had been absent of things truly needed like brushes and soaps. He'll have to remember to bring some next time. The initial joy of seeing the prince arrive has now given way to the children settled around him like sheep. They roll wooden carts against the grooves of stone beneath their stomachs and mess with painted wind up boxes, giggling in delight when they pop open to reveal various silly characters.

Lance runs his hand through the girl's hair absentmindedly, ignoring the peering gaze of a particular court official that shows up every few minutes. The man is no doubt making sure Lance is keeping up good appearance, as if he needed a reminder to remain tame. Instead of giving the man his attention, he looks at an open window and watches the white birds nesting there, his thoughts drifting further and further away.

Steering clear of painful memories, he instead fixates on the boy he'd spotted in the crowd. If it were any other day, Lance thinks he wouldn't have given the boy a second thought, let alone a lingering glance. His cloak was poorly made and his face was hidden behind a thick scarf, the color washed from the sun. Shock, more than anything, made Lance return his gaze; shock that the boy hadn't been lowering his head. His eyes were dark and they remained open beneath the hood, holding fast to Lance's own like a crow or gull, studying and appraising.

The look has stayed within Lance's mind all day and even now, as a soldier bows before him with the signal to leave, it sticks. He nods and blinks away his incessant thoughts, attention quickly drawing back to the children. They jump up like a fish in a pond, one after another begging him to stay.

"I'll return in three days." He promises, trying and failing to wrap his arms around each of them as they bombard him with loud goodbyes.

The soldier warns them off soon enough.

As they leave the orphanage behind, Lance turns with a glare. "There's no need to scare them."

Shiro glances at him from the corner of his eye, "They'd hold on to you like leeches all night if they could."

A small upturn of his mouth makes Lance rolls his eyes, the shifting clink of jewelry on his wrist instantly covered by the bustling noise of the streets. Men and women and children bow respectfully as they pass.

"Well," Lance says as they start the trek back to the palace, "they're my little leeches, aren't they?"

Shiro breathes a laugh. He's taller than Lance by a few inches and his hair is cropped very short, easier for the placement of his helmet should he need it. A red cape falls from his shoulders and on his right shoulder rests the crest of the royal guard, Captain and leader of the forces meant to keep this island safe. Though no one really knows where he came from, his accent reflects the rolls and twists of Lance's own language. If not for the brutal scar on his face and the missing limb of his right arm, Lance would assume that he was raised and trained right here in the capitol. 

Lance remembers, when he was a child, the way he'd listen to his mother as he stared at the soldiers from the safety of the palace. Now, as Shiro steers the mare and places a hand on the animal's warm neck, Lance can't help but chuckle at the looks he receives. Mostly in awe, the children watch him like he were a God come alive. It sends an amused smile to his face.

"Lance." Shiro suddenly says, voice quiet and serious.

Their eyes meet for a brisk moment and Lance leans forward, feigning the petting of his horse's ears.

"Do you still plan for sundown?" Shiro asks, sounding as if he already knows the answer but wishes he didn't.

Lance spots several soldiers walking toward them from ahead, their faces full of relief at seeing the prince return from the slums.

"Yes." Lance quickly replies.

Shiro nods, a minuscule shift of his head, before letting the horse go.

 

* * *

 

That night, just after the servants have finished their cleaning duties and gone to bed, Lance gets out of his. He quickly dresses and laces his sandals, eager to place a cloak around his shoulders and a hood above his head. Having done this many times before, he wastes no time with climbing out the window. All that waits below is rocks, jagged things that would end his life sooner than help him live it.

With a glance down either end of the long hall, he leaves his bedroom and practically tiptoes toward the kitchens. On the off chance that he's caught, he will lie. He will say he was cold from the tiles and hungry from the long day.

But he is never caught.

The moment he makes it to the courtyard, Shiro whistles and leads him to the southern wall, where thick garden bushes part between Lance's hands. He thanks Shiro with a touch of his fingers on his arm, promising without words that he'll be careful. That he will return. He knows Shiro worries, that he risks his own head just so Lance can do this.

The moment he reaches the old gates, Lance climbs and lands on the other side.

And once he stands, the whole city is alive and bright before him.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this first introductory chapter. This story is a slow burn and I enjoy world building so I hope this suits your tastes! Let me know what you think, comments keep me very motivated :)


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